


Self Destructive Zones

by romanticalgirl



Category: Country Music RPF, Drive-By Truckers
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-01
Packaged: 2017-12-04 23:21:42
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,553
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/716232
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/romanticalgirl/pseuds/romanticalgirl
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Too cool to give a damn</p>
            </blockquote>





	Self Destructive Zones

**Author's Note:**

> Thanks to[](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/profile)[](http://inlovewithnight.livejournal.com/) **inlovewithnight** for beta-duty.
> 
> Originally posted 12-1-08

Cooley’s drunker than a moonshiner in the Ozarks, and Jason’s close on his heels, weaving down the deserted Texas sidewalks, roaring Johnny Cash songs at the top of their lungs. Shonna and Patterson had copped out early, citing too damn tired and too damn drunk as a reason to disappear back to the hotel, but Jason and Cooley had added in too damn stubborn, so they were still out, two more bottles of whiskey killed between them. Cooley’s arm is around Jason’s shoulders, and his voice is a low growl in Jason’s ear as he works his way through the second verse of “Folsom Prison Blues”.

Jason doesn’t think about it as he wraps his arm over Cooley’s shoulders, the disparity in their heights causing them to list slightly to the left, teetering dangerously on the edge of the sidewalk. “Hell, Cooley.” His drawl is thick from the liquor. “Goddamn bars are closed.” He blinks up at the cold, dark neon, the bright lights shut down for the night. “The fuck do we do now?”

There are plenty of bottles on the bus, and more than a few in the hotel rooms, but going back to the room feels like admitting defeat. Cooley turns them anyway, heading back the way they came. They stumble toward the sleek black bus, nearly hidden off in the farthest lot from the hotel, segueing from Johnny Cash to Charley Pride as they hit the parking lot like an out of control good old boy in his first car. They crash into each other and more than a few parked cars, pounding on the door of the bus until Jason remembers that Cooley has a key. They fall over themselves and each other up the stairs, collapsing in a pile of limbs and laughter in the aisle.

“Fuck,” Cooley laughs, shoving Jason off of him so he can crawl back to the small kitchenette that serves mostly as a repository for all the beer. Jason follows close on his heels, climbing Mike the way Patterson does onstage to grab for the whiskey. They settle next to each other, leaning against the fridge and passing the bottle back and forth. Jason lays his head on Mike’s shoulder and Mike’s hand settles on Jason’s thigh, neither of them all that interested in moving now that they’ve stopped.

“Fuck.” Jason laughs softly under his breath. Cooley echoes the sound, his hand tightening on Jason’s thigh. They both watch his hand, the long tapered fingers against the faded denim of Jason’s blue jeans. Cooley’s brow furrows as he slides his hand upward and then back down toward Jason’s knee. Jason turns his head, breath fanning against Cooley’s neck, the humidity fueled perspiration damp on his skin. Cooley shivers almost imperceptibly and Jason laughs again, the sound low and hungry this time.

“What’re you thinking, Isbell?” Cooley’s voice is the same low rumble as when he sings, riding like a bottleneck slide down Jason’s spine. Cooley’s hand slides up again, and Jason can feel his cock hardening in his jeans. He and Cooley don’t touch much, so he feels every press and play against his skin. Cooley’s intense the same ways that Patterson is playful, and Jason knows that isn’t going to change a damn bit, just because they’re doing whatever this is instead of making music.

“Thinking we’re gonna need to buy more whiskey.” Jason spreads his legs a little further apart so that Cooley’s hand can edge even higher. Cooley watches as his fingers splay out over the faded denim of Jason’s jeans, the spider’s web of split threads on his thighs where the fabric is threatening to fall apart completely. “What d’you think?”

“Think you talk too much.” Mike leans in and presses his mouth to Jason’s. It’s not a kiss, not really, because a kiss means something, and this is just aggression, drunken need and want. This is emotions given free reign as Cooley’s hand slides higher and settles on the bulge in Jason’s jeans, rubbing him firmly through the material.

Jason doesn’t say anything, but there’s a low, mournful moan that melts against Cooley’s mouth as his hips arch up to thrust against Mike’s hand. There’s nothing gentle about his touch, and nothing gentle in the way Jason’s fingers dig into Mike’s shoulders, holding him against him to keep him from pulling back. The air gets heated and thin, but they keep holding on until they break apart in some sort of explosion of need, gasping hungrily until their chests are heaving in unison.

“Fuck.” Jason growls as Cooley presses into him again, pushing Jason down onto the floor. It’s like wrestling for the remote or for riding shotgun, no quarter asked or given. It’s almost angry – grabbing and pulling and jerking and tearing, clothes shredded at thinning seams and falling apart as they claw at one another until Jason’s shirt is in pieces on the floor and Mike’s mouth is pressed against his collarbone, sucking sweat-slick skin between his lips, licking at it with his tongue.

Jason arches his neck so that Mike can work his way up his throat, tasting and biting hard. There’s grace in Cooley’s hands when he plays, and Jason’s just another instrument, running his hands over frets and boards until Jason’s playing exactly what Cooley wants to hear. The floor of the bus is hard and the walkway is narrow, but Mike’s slim hips slide easily through the minimal room until he’s kneeling on either side of Jason’s chest, one hand supporting him over Jason and the other undoing his jeans. Jason’s mouth is open, lips wet and parted and he knows there’s hunger in his eyes, drunk and mean and desperate, and that’s what Cooley’s looking for. Jason knows what Cooley’s looking for, that he wants the real Jason, the one he knows lurks underneath painted lyrics and grinding solos, and Jason offers him up on a platter, opening his mouth wider to take Cooley deep.

It’s not a blow job so much as it’s Mike fucking Jason’s mouth, thrusting between his parted lips and grunting low as Jason reacts with pressure and heat, his tongue firm against Cooley’s length with every stroke. It’s wet and messy and almost painful and Mike mutters under his breath, lyrics to songs Jason’ll never hear, can’t hear as the rush of blood in his ears gets louder and louder, as Cooley’s thrusts grow harder and more erratic. Jason lifts his hands and grabs Cooley’s hips, pulling Mike closer to him and deep in his throat, closing around him to suck hard until he can’t feel anything but the spasm of Mike’s orgasm and the rough jerk of his hips as he comes.

Forever lasts about five minutes and then the world comes back into focus, Cooley braced over him, his thin frame trembling slightly. Jason relaxes his jaw and lets him slip free, easing back to sit on his heels and Jason’s chest both. The haze of alcohol is like a pilot light leaking gas all around him until Jason feels ready to go up in flames, but he can’t move at all with Mike’s weight on him and the heaviness of his own cock waiting for relief. Mike doesn’t look away from Jason’s face as he leans back slightly, his hand wrapping around easily around Jason’s dick and stroking it. Jason catches his breath and bites his lower lip, hips arching up to meet Mike’s hand again.

“C’mon, boy.” Cooley’s voice is rough with laughter, rasping on the words as he jerks Jason’s cock hard, his calloused hands rough on Jason’s skin. “’s what you want, isn’t it? What you think about? Isn’t it, boy?”

“Don’t…” Jason gasps, his breath tight in his chest as Mike’s hand closes around him, fingers burning on his skin. “Don’t call me that.”

“It’s what you are.” Cooley leans in, his hand sliding up to the head, rubbing the ridge with the blunt edge of his finger, teasing it until Jason’s hips cant upwards, higher and higher. “Isn’t it?”

“C-Cooley. Fuck.” Jason’s voice breaks as Mike’s thumb runs over the head of his cock, pressing against the slit. “Shit, Mike.”

“Isn’t it?”

Jason tries to shift away from Cooley’s tight grip, but it’s too hard to pull away from the weighted circle of his fist, from the friction and slide of his hand around Jason’s cock. Cooley is relentless, holding Jason on the edge, refusing to let him fall over. “Fuck. Yes. Yes. Fuck. C’mon.”

Cooley laughs, rough and low and deep, like something dragged up from his gut, ripe with heartbreak and pain as he moves his hand faster, pumping his hand along Jason’s shaft until Jason cries out, shuddering his way through his orgasm. Cooley doesn’t stop until Jason’s gasping, begging for it, and only then does he pull his hand away, resting it on top of Jason’s thigh. “We need more whiskey.”

Jason nods as Cooley gets to his feet, tugging up his jeans and buckling his belt as he climbs out of the bus, no doubt headed for the hotel. Jason lets him go. He’s drunk enough that anything else seems like too much work, and not drunk enough to follow him trying to prove something that he’s not sure he can anyway.  



End file.
